Apologetic Mother

July 27, 2007 § Leave a comment

I feel the need to apologize.
I keep meaning to write you a poem, because that’s important.

But I want to take my son to the big telescope, and won’t have time
to write about what I’ll see in the sky or in his face
because then we’ll need dinner, and school tomorrow,
so teeth and story and bed.

I keep meaning to sketch the people at the reservoir, because they stand still,

but I want to find a new apartment, one I can afford,
and I won’t have time to write about the jacket a man was wearing
at the farmers market. I don’t know why I got so sad I nearly cried,
but we need to get home, and the laundry is still in the dryer.

In my mind’s eye are my son’s bare feet, sinking into the sand
at the beach, where we’ll take some dinner and see what it’s like
to live so close to the sea.

September, 2006

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